that's my name (don't wear it out)
by puckiety
Summary: in another world, he made his offer after she'd had enough time to get out of her downward spiral. in another world, she spent new year's eve in the bed of a boy who loved her. but not in this one. / oneshot. saint jimmy/oc.
1. am i more than you bargained for yet?

**A/N: two things: the lack of capitalization in this story is a stylistic choice, and i'm putting a trigger warning for drug use here, although it's no worse than what happens in the show.**

* * *

in another world, he tweeted a few days later, after she'd had enough time to get out of her downward spiral. in another world, she spent new year's eve in the bed of a boy who loved her.

but not in this one.

she'd liked the tweet in a daze, not because she expected anything. oh, she knows him, and he knows her, but only as a lame goody-two-shoes who doesn't know how to have fun.

what she gets is a _hey there sweetie_ , and suddenly her world is turned on its head. she freezes, unsure how to respond, until finally her shaking fingers type out the words _and here i thought you considered me lame._ he tells her he'll _reconsider_ if she can fulfill his needs. it's a one-night stand, because of course it is, and it's nothing she hasn't done before.

(that's not strictly true; he likes hard drugs, wants her to tighten the band on his arm before they get to anything else, but she's just the right stage of _desperate_ to forget how much she doesn't want to be near a druggie.)

the poison words of her stepmother are echoing in her head & so even as she tweets back _i've known boys like you before_ , she knows she'll be saying yes to whatever he wants of her. five minutes later, she gets a response: _you've never met anyone like me, i promise you that_.

 _when and where_? she asks.

* * *

"come back to bed."

she doesn't come back to bed. she keeps getting dressed, pulling a pair of her pants off of his dresser and snatching one of his white t-shirts from off of the floor. "i have class in an hour."

he scoffs, then leers. "that's plenty of time for what i want."

she shoots him a glance over her shoulder just before she pulls his t-shirt on, and the look in her green eyes is decidedly unamused. "not if i want to shower."

"you showered last night," he complains, propping himself up on his elbows. she must have already brushed her hair; there's no sign of it being mussed from the night before.

"i don't want to smell like…" the sentence goes unfinished, so he's not sure if she means _booze_ or _sex_ or _you_.

"don't be a lameass," he says.

she stops at that, like he knew she would, because insulting her always fires her up. "i'm not being a _lameass_. just because you forgot to shower doesn't mean i need to, too."

"you're just too chickenshit to go to class after fucking me," he taunts. she turns on her heel, and when she glares at him, he knows he's won.

"i am _not_ chickenshit."

"then get over here," he says, smirking, "and _prove it_."

* * *

"want a drag?" he asks, holding out his cigarette lazily. she wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

"you know i don't smoke."

he bites back the word _lame_ because he sees the look in her eyes and he knows that pissing her off is not going to get him laid tonight – and he wants to get laid.

"we could always shoot up."

another shake of her head. "you _just_ shot up. and you _also_ know that i hate needles." he knows that's code for _i don't like hard drugs_ , but again, he lets it slide. he's in a good mood. kind of.

"pot, then? there's brownies in the fridge."

she's only gotten high with him once before, in the backseat of her car, but he likes her high. it's better than having her around drunk, when she gets a little handsy but doesn't want sex, just to sleep on top of him. she's fearless when she's high; that time in her car, he'd put his hand around her throat and pressed his mouth against hers, and when his other hand had slid up her shirt she'd gasped _someone might see us_ and he'd asked _so what?_ and instead of pushing to find somewhere private like she usually does, she'd just ground herself against him and pulled the shirt off herself.

now she hesitates, but instead of heading for the edibles she just winks at him, a taunting smile pulling at the corners of her red-painted mouth. the dark lipstick won't smudge no matter how hard he kisses her, no matter how many times he has her on her knees. it pisses him off more than the taunt in her expression, more than the way she's wrapped herself up in a blanket so he can't ogle her form. "why do that when _you're_ my drug of choice?" she asks, and her voice is _laden_ with innuendo, that smile – no, that _smirk_ – getting wider and wider.

he puts out the cigarette because he knows she'll just dance away from him if he comes near her with it lit, but even without it in his hand she darts away from him, smirking all the while. there isn't far she can go, of course, not with how small his bedroom is, but she gets far enough that he can't grab for her.

"come on, _saint jimmy_ , show me what you're made of."

his name from her lips is a novelty, usually reserved only for when they're in bed (or against a wall, or in the car, or when she's bent over a table). it's how he knows she's in the mood, because he swears that sometimes she only remembers his name when she wants to fuck him.

(not that he can blame her; he only remembers hers when he's moaning it into the crook of her neck.)

he crosses the room in two strides and backs her into the wall, _hard_ , though going by the sparkle in her eyes she doesn't mind at all. in fact, she's still smirking, and he swears that he's going to smudge that perfect lipstick of hers no matter what it takes. he puts his hand around her throat, just the slightest bit of pressure (the way she likes it, he knows), and she _laughs_ , teeth bright in her pretty face. she's wild today, and he's not sure why, but he's not going to complain when she's looking at him like _that_ – like she'll take whatever he gives her and she'll _love_ it. so instead of choking her until he's blue like he wants to, he grabs her wrists in one hand and pins them to the wall above her head.

when he kisses her, she presses against him until their bodies are flush together. she's all soft curves but her teeth scrape at his lip and in return he moves his mouth to her neck and _bites_ , relishing in the surprised moan that slips from her lips.

"you fucking like that, don't you?"

she looks at him through lidded eyes. "you taste like cigarette smoke, jackass."

she's avoiding his question, and he knows it, so he sucks another hickey into her neck until she's moaning again. "you _do_ like it."

she bucks against him as if trying to free her hands, but he's too strong. "quit fucking around," she hisses. "i don't want to wear a scarf tomorrow."

"so don't," he says, rolling his hips against her and taking satisfaction from the sharp inhale of breath he hears her take. "nobody gives a shit about a few hickeys."

"they'll ask questions," she counters, and goes to say something else – almost certainly another _fucking_ complaint – before he cuts her off with a rough kiss.

"shut the fuck up, sweetheart," he snarls against her lips, "they'll be asking questions about more than the hickeys. like how you won't be able to sit comfortably once i'm done with you."

that makes her laugh again, wild, and this time when his teeth scrape against her collarbone she doesn't bitch about it.

* * *

"what am i doing here?"

he turns his head to squint at the clock – 9 am, too _fucking_ early for any day of the week – and then closes his eyes again. "you don't have class this morning," he says, certain she'll miss the fact that he has to know her schedule to say that.

(he doesn't _care_ about her, that's not why he knows; he's just tired of trying to sext her and getting angry _i'm in class!_ responses. it's easier to plan hookups when he knows what the hell is going on with her.)

"not here right now," she clarifies, "just in general. what am i doing here? with you?"

his eyes blink open and he regards her apathetically. "you wanted a fuck and i wanted a fuck."

"yeah, but your original offer – you wanted someone you never had to talk to again." and she's changing out of his shirt, which is never a good thing. he's had girls change out of his shirts before, and it usually ends with yelling and one of them storming away. "yet here i am, weeks later, watching you get high and letting you fuck me even when you've been smoking cigarettes."

"so what? i happen to like fucking you," he says with a shrug, finally sitting up a little as she turns her back on him. "where do you think you're going?"

" _home_ ," she says curtly. "i don't know why i…" she sighs, turning around. "you aren't my type."

"not your type?" he echoes, rubbing at his eyes. "that's not what it seemed like when you were on your knees, or with my hand around my neck begging for my – "

" _stop_ ," she says, drowning out the end of his sentence. "you were a good lay. i'm not denying that. but i've never been able to do things like _this_ without…" she makes a gesture that he assumes, based off of interactions with other girls, means _catching feelings_.

"if you've got a crush on me, sweetie, just say it." he doesn't love _her_ , of course, even if she does have a nice set of tits and a pretty face, even if she knows just how to get him going and when to stop being a smartass.

"i don't," she says, and for once he can't tell if she's lying or not. he doesn't like not knowing. "but it might not stay that way, and you are the _last_ person i want to have feelings for."

he knows why that is, but he asks anyway. "why?"

she doesn't answer, just picks up her purse & slips on her heels. "goodbye, saint jimmy."

and then she's gone.

"good riddance!" he yells, and then throws his clock at the wall.

* * *

she takes everything of hers with her. every piece of clothing she's left at his place, every reminder that she was ever there, except one.

saint jimmy goes to put on his white t-shirt after picking it up, crumpled, from its place on the floor. there, on the neckline, is a smear of dark red. he scowls, rubs his thumb over it, but only succeeds in rubbing the stain in further. when he brings the fabric to his nose, it doesn't smell like blood.

 _lipstick_.

he throws the t-shirt into a corner and picks up another piece of clothing.


	2. she's the last of the american girls

**A/N:** **right, so this was only supposed to be a oneshot, but then i got hit with the inspiration to do another chapter from her pov, so here we are. same triggers as last time.**

* * *

that first time, she watches him get high after she tightens the band on her arm and a part of her wonders: _what am i doing here?_ she's never seen anyone get high before, and she's only ever gotten drunk (and this is why he calls her a _lameass_ and a _chickenshit_ ). she knows people that use weed because of _course_ she does, she's in college, but she's never been around to see them use it. and she doesn't know _anyone_ who shoots up.

or, well, she didn't before him.

he plunges the needle into his arm and she has to look away for that, but she glances back in time to see the high hit him, watches his mouth fall open and his eyelids flutter as she sits with her arms wrapped around her knees in a pose that makes her seem far more vulnerable than she is.

he sees her watching him and a smug smirk spreads across his face. "want a hit?" he asks her. she shakes her head a little and his expression goes hard; he's still smirking, but it's not smug, more pissed. "good. wasn't going to give you any, anyway."

there's silence for a moment, partially because she doesn't know how to respond to that and partially because she's not really sure how him shooting heroin is supposed to translate into her getting laid. it seemed easy enough to figure out before, just get from point a to point b, but now that she's _here_ she's suddenly aware of how inexperienced she is. she knows, in theory, how these things work, knows in theory what she likes, but the last guy she'd tried to fuck hadn't been able to keep it up and she'd had to spend a full fifteen minutes feeding his ego because he was so embarrassed.

thankfully – she thinks – she can't see that happening with the guy sitting across from her.

"well," he says finally, lazily, "you gonna get over here or not?"

she crawls her way over to him, and when she gets close enough he pulls her into his lap and kisses her, mouth open and wanting. she kisses back as best as she can, trying to figure out where to put her hands –

– he breaks the kiss.

"what are you, a fucking virgin?" the way he says it, she isn't sure if he thinks she's lame, or if he's one of those guys who gets off on being a girl's first.

"it's complicated," she says, settling her hands on his chest, fingers resting atop the piping of his vest. his hands are on her waist, squeezing a little too hard, but she doesn't complain.

" _complicated_? what does that mean?"

she huffs a laugh. "the only guy i've ever been with couldn't keep it up long enough to get his dick in me."

"you're kidding." his voice is flat – he thinks she's lying, she can tell.

she lets out another laugh. "i _wish._ never been less satisfied in my life."

"well…" and that dangerous grin of his is back, his hands sliding to her hips, "i've never left someone unsatisfied."

* * *

he is never satisfied.

she learns this quickly, learns the way he gets pissy when he wants to hook up and she's busy, learns the look he gets in his eyes when he wants to drag her back to bed for round two. but she knows her limits, and he's pretty good about abiding by them – probably because the one time he tried to push, she kicked him _hard_ and locked herself in the bathroom for an hour.

the memory of that night is probably the only reason he tolerates how she is when she's drunk.

she's had three glasses of wine, leftover franzia from a week ago when she got drunk at a friend's apartment and watched shitty ripoff disney films, and she is, frankly, wasted. he's leering at her, like he's waiting for her to get the right kind of handsy, but jokes on him because she just wants to talk about linguistics and tell him that he's really warm and then probably pass out.

(she does pass out, but only after drinking an entire bottle of water and eating half a box of shitty, stale cheez-its.)

she's tired enough and drunk enough that it doesn't even cross her mind to be concerned that she's about to be unconscious in the company of one of the shittiest people she knows, but it certainly crosses her mind when she wakes up in the morning. thankfully, they're both entirely clothed, even if he's sort of crushing half of her body because of they way they're laying. it's not cuddling – it's _not_ , not with _him_. no, it's more like he just collapsed on top of her, probably after getting high. one of her legs is asleep and so is one of her arms because he's heavier than he looks, god _damn_.

"hey," she says, because she hates saying his name. _saint jimmy_. it's so pretentious. half of her hopes that she'll one day achieve the kind of self-righteous narcissism needed to put the title _saint_ in front of her name. the other half of her wants to tell him that, and watch him get pissed. " _hey_ , move it."

he grunts, shifts a little, but doesn't actually get off of her. she heaves a sigh and tries to move her arm, but he's been laying on her for so long that she actually can't feel the limb at all – it might as well not be there. "hey!"

she practically yells it, which _finally_ seems to wake him up. their faces are very close, which she tries to pretend doesn't faze her by forcing herself to make eye contact. "what is it, sweetcheeks?"

only he can make terms of endearment sound so… she's not sure if she wants to say _dirty_ or _apathetic_. she thinks it's somewhere inbetween.

"you're crushing me," she says. he smirks.

"i thought you liked it when i was on top."

and oh, that makes her blush, and she _hates_ it, but the last time they went at it he'd wrapped his hand around her neck – hadn't even squeezed, just set it there – and she hadn't been able to stifle her moan. and she knows he remembers, and she knows he also remembers every other time he's been rough and she's liked it.

"just get up, and maybe we'll have time for a quickie before i go."

* * *

she doesn't understand why he keeps coming back to her.

the fact of the matter is this: she's not his type. she's _not_. she's seen girls who are his type, girls who are wild and angry and wear too much eyeliner, and she's not that. the closest she gets to _punk_ is when she throws on a leather jacket and her red lipstick, and the only pills she ever pops are claritin for her allergies.

(to be fair, he's not her usual type, either; she likes sensitive, charming boys, especially boys who sing and are kind to others and flirt with her. she doesn't go for boys like him, with heavy eye makeup and piercings who do hard drugs.)

but he _wants_ her. and, yes, maybe it's just her body that he wants, but that doesn't change the fact that they're standing together outside this party as he says goodbye, looking like some pastor's daughter and her dirtbag boyfriend. well, she's _not_ a pastor's daughter, and he's… well, he _is_ a dirtbag. but he's not her boyfriend, even if he grabs her ass when another guy checks her out, pulls her possessively closer when somebody winks at her. not her boyfriend, just an asshole who happens to be a good lay.

she drives them back to his place, but when she goes to get out of the car he grabs her arm and tugs her back. the door slams shut. she huffs out a _what the fuck_ and turns to face him, shaking her arm in an attempt to loosen his grip.

"i got something for ya," he smirks, and reaches into his jacket to withdraw… is that a _brownie_? "if you ain't gonna smoke…"

…oh. an edible. god, she _is_ a lameass. thankfully, she didn't open her mouth and say what she was thinking, because he undoubtedly would have made a smart comment and then she would have slapped him.

she hesitates for a moment, doesn't just take the brownie, because does she _really_ want to get high right now? she isn't sure.

"open up," he says, essentially making the decision for her because her mouth falls open on his command. he laughs and she blushes, angry with herself for responding so instinctually and also flustered by the way he leans in far closer than he needs to when he feeds her the brownie. when she takes a bite of it he laughs again and says "good girl" in a tone of voice that almost makes her spew said brownie directly onto him.

when she swallows the edible, she chokes out: "good girls don't do pot."

"well, sweetcheeks, you certainly ain't a rebel."

"i could be," she protests, even though she knows she couldn't.

he laughs again, that same almost-cruel laugh, and says "rebels don't smell like bubblegum." and then he holds the brownie up again, waiting for her to take another bite. after a moment's hesitation, she does. _too late to turn back now_. after she swallows that one he's back again, until he's fed her the whole thing and he's eating one himself.

five minutes later they're in her backseat, blaring whatever mixtape she'd been listening to last, waiting for the high to kick in. she'd be lying if she said she isn't nervous, unsure of what happens next, but truth be told every experience with him is like this. she's always a little anxious, knowing that he'll take the lead but not always certain that she wants to follow him.

she's already in his lap and making out with him by the time she thinks to herself: _oh, this is what being high is like_ , which is reminiscent of how, when she got drunk the first time, she only realized after she tried to use dispense soap into her hand without putting her hand near the dispenser. except now it's the fact that she's _giggling_ when his hand is around her throat that sets off the _whoa! you're fucked up!_ alarm in her head – not that she cares. what she _does_ care about is when his other hand slips up her shirt, at which point she breaks the kiss.

"someone might see us," she gasps as he lets go of her neck. he grins at her, that stupid cocky grin that straddles the line between _hot_ and _terrifying_.

"so what?"

 _fuck it_ , she thinks, grinds her hips against him, and pulls off her shirt. his smile widens, and next thing she knows she's laying across her backseat in a position that can't be comfortable for either of them, with him on top of her.

but she's giggling again, so it doesn't matter.

* * *

"what am i doing here?"

it's one of their _many_ mornings after, and she's getting dressed when the question hits her. she watches him stir; the mattress creaks as he moves around. "you don't have class this morning," he says, and she tries not to dwell on the fact that he apparently has her class schedule memorized. it's surprisingly easy, considering how she's going over the past – what, month? – in her mind, wondering how she got here.

"not here right now," she says, because she knows he's still half-asleep and probably misunderstood her, "just in general. what am i doing here? with you?"

he rubs his eyes in a way that shouldn't be endearing, and he regards her with a blank stare: "you wanted a fuck and i wanted a fuck."

"yeah, but your original offer – you wanted someone you never had to talk to again." for a second she hesitates, contemplates forgetting all of this and just crawling back into bed, considers allowing herself to get lost in him. instead, she pulls off his white t-shirt and drops it on the ground, reaching for one of her own tops. "yet here i am, weeks later, watching you get high and letting you fuck me even when you've been smoking cigarettes."

"so what? i happen to like fucking you," he says, sitting up with a shrug. she turns around, mind racing; she knows what happens next. it's a fast decision to make, but she knows it's the right one. "where do you think you're going?"

" _home_ ," she says curtly. "i don't know why i…" she cuts herself off, sighs, and turns back around to face him. she's searching for the right words to say – if there _are_ any right words for this situation – and finally settles on this: "you aren't my type." _and i'm not yours_ , she adds in her mind, crossing her arms. that's not what this is really about, but she doesn't know how to articulate what she really feels right now.

"not your type?" he echoes, and he's rubbing at his eyes again. but when he's done, he looks at her with the beginnings of rage in his eyes. she's upset him. "that's not what it seemed like when you were on your knees, or with my hand around your neck begging for my – "

" _stop_ ," she says. she knows what he's going to say; she feels her cheeks heat up at the thought of his words. "you were a good lay. i'm not denying that. but i've never been able to do things like _this_ without…" she makes a vague gesture, one that she hopes comes across as _getting insecure and/or developing feelings because i'm a needy bitch._

"if you've got a crush on me, sweetie, just say it."

 _god_ , she hates him.

(that's a lie, one of the bigger ones she's told herself. she should hate him; most days she's pissed or annoyed with him. but she's never hated him. she's _envied_ him for having the guts to do shit she never could, for being self-righteous and narcissistic and careless enough to shoot up and smoke and do everything she'll never do in a million years.)

"i don't," she says, and she's only mostly sure that it's the truth, which is why she adds: "but it might not stay that way, and you are the _last_ person i want to have feelings for."

"why?"

he knows the answer. she _knows_ he knows the answer, so she doesn't know why he's asking, doesn't know why he wants to drag this out when it'll only end in him more pissed off at her. she doesn't understand why he's pissed, when this was what he wanted: a girl that he could fuck and never talk to again. so she doesn't answer, just picks up her purse & slips on her heels.

"goodbye, saint jimmy," she says.

she has a feeling it'll be the last time she says his name.

* * *

weeks later, she goes to put on her red lipstick, and she hesitates. she's off to a party, ready play designated driver, and for a moment she wonders if she'll see him, and what will happen if she does. she remembers the way he used to kiss her when she wore the dark shade, always a little harder than when she wore a different color. it's her best lipstick, one that has always stayed no matter what she eats or drinks or does, and she wonders if that's why. she wonders if the thought of something he couldn't control pissed him off.

after another moment, she puts down the dark red and reaches instead for a bright metallic blue, applying it carefully and looking at her reflection as the liquid sets. she's wearing more eyeliner than usual, and the combo makes her feel dangerous, wild. _uncontrollable_.

she doesn't know if she'll see him, but she knows that if she does, she won't look like the girl he remembers.


End file.
